


Good Morning

by MelfinaLupin



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode Related, Hand Jobs, M/M, spoilers for epsiode 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelfinaLupin/pseuds/MelfinaLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is left in charge of Ragnar’s recovery for a morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Morning

Dawn finds Ragnar shackled with a high fever. Gyda and Bjorn try to get their delirious father to sip cool water that would no doubt soothe the scalding heat inside his body even as he trembled with chills but their efforts are wasted.

  
“That’s enough, children,” Lagertha barks out as she prepares for a journey into the woods with the help of Helga. She is eager to occupy her children with something else to take their mind off this father’s condition. “Come on. We need to find the ingredients Floki told us about.”

  
“But what about father?” Gyda asks. She follows her mother’s commands but it is obvious that she is troubled.

  
“Athelstan will stay with him,” Lagertha tells her daughter as she aims a warning look at the priest.

  
The young monk looks up from the table where he is cleaning up the remnants of their hasty breakfast. The family had eaten in a hurry in the early morning hours, eager to go out and find the herbs that would abate Ragnar’s sickness. Athelstan swallows hard. The responsibly of looking after the dying warrior sits heavily in his stomach.

  
“Don’t worry, Gyda,” he says as calmly as he can. He does not wish to disappoint his captors. After being in their care for so long they are starting to feel like more like a family. “I will take good care of him. God will not let him die.”

  
The young girl gives a teary smile. Despite her brother’s open hostility for the monk, Athelstan likes to think she is fond of him at least.

  
“Come on,” Lagertha says, walking both her children to the door of the tiny murky cabin. “We are wasting too much time. Athelstan, we will be back as soon as possible.”

  
With the trio gone the cabin feels less stifling. Athelstan quickly finishes clearing the table before sitting next to Ragnar. Even though he is suffering a fever he is cold and clammy to the touch and is restless in a shallow sleep. Athelstan removes the cloth from his forehead before dunking it in a bucket of water. It’s not very cold but it seems to help the insufferable heat that rages inside Ragnar’s head for a moment.

  
At the other end of the living area Helga’s movements are quiet. “I need to go, priest,” the young blonde murmurs. She is young and beautiful. Her relationship with Floki is unclear. Athelstan wonders if the two are married or not. Athelstan tries to keep his opinions to himself after all the two have been so kind and willing to open up their already cramped quarters to him. She grabs a large cloth bag and a walking stick. “Floki and I are going into town. We will be back before midday.”

  
“Be safe.”

  
She nods her thanks and leaves the hut. Outside he can hear her call to Floki and the sound of chopping wood stops. Seconds later the mad ship builder opens the door and grins at Athelstan.

  
“Pray to your god that Ragnar doesn’t die,” Floki teases as oddly excited laughter spills from his mouth. “If he doesn’t answer you can always call upon Eir. I won’t tell anyone you did.”

  
Athelstan doesn’t understand the older man’s sense of humor and considers him half-mad most of the time so he tries not to be offended. “Have a safe trip,” the monk replies politely even as Floki cackles louder and slams the door shut.

  
The cabin is eerily quiet with everyone gone. The fire crackles as it burns in the pit and outside Athelstan hears the birds twitter in the trees. This is the most calm he has experience since after the sudden raid on the farm and his ears ring unpleasantly from the lack of sound. Even though it’s peaceful it makes Athelstan wonder if he should be doing something more productive.

  
On the humble bed Ragnar groans and his brilliant blue eyes flutter open.

  
“Where is my wife?”

  
“She has gone with your children to find medicinal herbs,” Athelstan whispers as softly as he can. “You are burning up with fever, Ragnar.”

  
The warrior merely looks disgruntled by the news. “I’m cold.”

  
“I can find you some more blankets and add more firewood to the pit,” the monk offers. Already the inside of the cabin is sweltering with the unusually large fire but it’s for Ragnar’s sake so Athelstan doesn’t complain.

  
“I don’t want that. Come on.” Ragnar beckons Athelstan closer with a jerk of his head.

  
Athelstan purposely remains obtuse. “What is it? Are you hungry?” He can’t remember the last time Ragnar ate and that worries him.

  
“No, I’m not hungry. Come on.” Another tiny nod and then that teasing, hopeful smile lights up Ragnar’s eyes. “Come on, priest.”

  
Athelstan can feel his face start to burn and he looks away. “I don’t understand,” he lies.

  
“Get under the covers. I need your warmth.”

  
He doesn’t move and feels his breathing pause a moment. However impassive he may look on the outside on the inside he feels like tossing the rest of the water into Ragnar’s face and storming out of the cabin out of frustration because he can’t decide if the warrior is teasing him or not. Ragnar loves to ridicule him.

  
“Lagertha would.”

  
“I am not your wife.”

  
Ragnar frowns but it looks more like a pout. Athelstan can feel his resistance crumple. He consoles himself when he remembers in the monastery when a monk had become ill it was not unusual for another man to slip into the bed and share his own body heat on cold nights when blankets and firewood was scarce. However the sick monk usually didn’t confuse the other one with immoral propositions time and time again.

  
“Athelstan, please. That’s an order.”

  
Athelstan wipes his head back to Ragnar and stares, mouth agape. “That’s unfair, Ragnar,” he objects, momentarily outraged. “Even for you.”

  
That makes the older man laugh weakly. Turning onto his side with a grimace he makes room for Athelstan. He shoves back the thick mound of covers to reveal the empty spot on the mattress that he is expecting to be occupied. He grins at Athelstan. “Come on,” he implores, his voice as sweet as honey. “I will tell Lagertha of your disobedience and she still beat you.”

  
Athelstan wonders if Ragnar is being asinine on purpose but decides it’s the fever talking. “Fine,” he murmurs and quickly slides into the warm bed. Instantly Ragnar covers them up in the coarse blankets before throwing his injured leg over Athelstan and wrapping an arm around his waist, effectively pinning the monk to the bed. Now even if Athelstan wants to leave he can’t. At least not without jarring the warrior's wounds further.

  
“You’re hard as stone,” Ragnar murmurs as he huddles closer. His mouth is so close to Athelstan’s ear and so sinfully deep that the younger man quickly becomes uncomfortable. The priest gulps, wondering if Ragnar words are meant to have a perverted meaning. “Relax.”

  
“I’m sorry,” the monk murmurs quickly. He shuts his eyes and tells himself to obey but the unexpected contact of another human being is wreaking havoc on his senses especially since that human is a tall, impossibly fit man like Ragnar.

  
He is not expecting Ragnar to rest his head on his shoulder and feels his hot breathe against his neck. Cuddling so intimately was definitely not what the monks did in the monastery. It was purely platonic and nothing more. This was something else altogether and Athelstan was positive God would not approve of this. He persists because he can feel the coldness and the violent shivers that emanate from Ragnar’s weakened body and he can’t help but pity his captor.

  
They were quiet for a while and Athelstan hopes that Ragnar has fallen asleep once more. He doesn’t try to work his way out of the warrior’s grip despite the fact he is slowly falling behind on his chores. Ragnar’s steady breathing and the pop of the fire soothe Athelstan and his body slowly relaxes. He yawns while as his eyelids grow heavy. Last night his worry for Ragnar’s safety had made his rest a poor one. Ragnar shifts. The heavy leg he had tossed over Athelstan’s body earlier moves, rubbing the monk’s long neglected groin. Instantly his drowsiness fades as his cock becomes embarrassingly hard from the accidental contact. He shuts his eyes and prays for the pressure to pass quickly before the other man wakens to find the monk horrendously aroused.

  
Ragnar murmurs in his sleep and his hand moves from Athelstan shoulder to rub tiny circles into his chest, deliberately slow. The monk bites his lower lip and tries to ignore the pleasure Ragnar’s restless leg his giving him.

  
“So, you _are_ hard as stone,” the man suddenly whispers against his neck. His voice is thick and rumbling, wavering somewhere between playfulness and seduction. Athelstan bits harder when he feels Ragnar’s wet, hot lips languidly tastes the bare skin of his neck.

  
“Ragnar,” he stammers. He can’t believe his body has betrayed him and is mortified that Ragnar has to witness his moral corruption. “Please stop.”

  
“Why?” Ragnar’s hand slides down the length of Athelstan’s body, seeking the heat of the monk’s groin. “Why, Athelstan, when it feels so good?”

  
Ragnar shifts again and for the first time Athelstan can feel the pressure of the warrior’s erection against his hip. It had never occurred to him that Ragnar could be attracted to him the way a man is attracted to a woman. He always thought it had been Lagertha’s wickedness that had been the mastermind behind the couple asking Athelstan into their bed. Now it seems both are equally immoral.

  
Athelstan’s first response is to jump out of the bed but he only moans, slack-jawed, when he feels Ragnar’s hand touch him through his trousers. That only seems to embolden the warrior. He licks Athelstan neck with the tip of his tongue from the base to ear with nothing but the sound of Ragnar’s hoarse breathing filling the cabin. He guides the fatty lobe into his mouth and sucks gently. Athelstan’s moans become louder and Ragnar’s hand only moves away long to roughly loosen the leather ties of the monk’s pants before it slips inside.

  
“God,” Athelstan swears under his breath. He is not sure if he is calling upon the lord for His help. He shudders when Ragnar’s long fingers graze the tight curls of his groin before wrapping his hot hand around Athelstan’s swollen cock. The touch makes Athelstan whimper. The sinful touch is amazingly pleasurable and for a moment he is too overwhelmed to be ashamed.

  
Ragnar let’s Athelstan’s tender earlobe go and pants heavily into the monk’s ear and he strokes him lightly as first, allowing the monk to become accustomed to the pleasure. The pace quickens with intent as his grip tightens. Athelstan realizes that Ragnar means to make him spill his seed and he struggles briefly. Ragnar moves and suddenly he is hovering over Athelstan, pinning him to the bed with his bigger body and crushing his mouth against the monk’s.

  
Athelstan wants to rage and to push the man off of him but he only moans into the rough wet kiss. His hands move to beat Ragnar but only end up clinging to his naked shoulders, his nails digging into the hot flesh, as he feels Ragnar’s thumb stroke the crown on his cock, paying more attention than necessary to the weeping slit. It wrings more and more pleasure out of Athelstan’s body.

  
Ragnar pulls away from Athelstan’s lips and stares down at him, grinning with his eyes bright with fever.

“You like this,” he remarks, pumping Athelstan’s straining cock once more. He sounds astonished and pleased but his voice never rises above a whisper.

  
Athelstan can only sob and cover his burning face with his hands. Ragnar seems like he is more than happy to watch the monk come undone and he will not give him that satisfaction.

  
“Do you want me to lick you with my tongue, priest?” Ragnar asks. The callused pad of his thumb once again brushes across the slippery tip and Athelstan cries out, his hips unconsciously pitching forward. “Do you want me to take you into my mouth and suck until you spill your seed?” He leans down and swipes his tongue along Athelstan’s bottom lip so very slowly. “I’m very good at it.”

  
Ragnar’s sinful words prove to be Athelstan’s downfall. It makes pleasure gnaw like a caged beast in his belly and fills his mind with outrageously sinful images. With a strangled moan, his body tenses as his comes messily into Ragnar’s hand. For a brief wonderful moment he can only experience a mind-numbing pleasure that so many from the church condemn as evil and for that moment he does not care. He collapses into the bed, weak and breathless. Above him, Ragnar removes his hand carefully and nuzzles Athelstan chin and neck.

  
“Your god does not strike you down died, priest,” he murmurs softly. “Surely that means he does not care one way or another what you do in between the sheets.”

  
Ragnar’s mockery only serves to eradicate Athelstan’s false sense of contentment. His hands fly away from his face and he glares at Ragnar, eyes brimming with unshed tears. The endless ridicule of his faith disgusts him and makes him burn with anger. He is ready to punch Ragnar in his face despite his current illness when the door of the cabin opens up and Floki capers in, too distracted by his own thoughts to see the two men in bed.

  
“Can’t buy things without gold,” he laughs to himself as he grabs the small pouch of coins on the table. He turns and pauses a moment when he spies the state of the makeshift bed. He grins but doesn’t look affronted. Athelstan winces and hides his face once more behind his hands, in face burning with his shame.

  
“I’m glad you are feeling better, my friend,” he giggles before leaving the hut once more.

  
The silence that follows is awkward and tense as Athelstan shoves Ragnar off of him. He climbs out of the bed, completely disheveled. He straightens up his messy clothes and refuses to meet Ragnar’s eyes. He is disgusted with himself, his body, and with Ragnar.

  
“Don’t be upset, priest,” Ragnar pleads, laughter making his voice shake slightly. “You’ll ruin the moment.”

  
The monk is so very close to snapping at the infuriating warrior when he remembers himself so he thinks it’s better that he says nothing at all. He just wants to get out of there as quickly as possible and clean himself up and pray to God that his weakness would be forgiven eventually.

  
“Athelstan.” Ragnar’s voice is chilling when he is serious and the monk is looking at him before he can stop. They stare at each other before a grin splits Ragnar’s face. He gestures to his lap where his cock tents the blankets. “As a Christian and my slave will you not help me out?”

  
Athelstan is a vessel of his anger. Before he knows it he is hurtling towards the bucket besides the bed and heaves the stale water onto the sick man.

“Help yourself, you heathen,” he shouts in his own language before stomping out of the cabin.


End file.
